


One Side Will Have to Go

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2010-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Dean can't get Sam out of hell or hell out of heaven</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Side Will Have to Go

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for deaths of children (in the background, not directly depicted).
> 
> Title from Philip Larkin, "Aubade."

  
Dean lasts two years and three failed resouling attempts before he puts a bullet between the Sam–thing’s eyes. It isn’t, like, anything major that sets him off. It’s just one day they’ve killed a Nix. They’re back in its cave, once the body’s taken care of, searching, because maybe the girl they were looking for is still alive. There’s always that chance, that they’ll save her. But the cave is quiet and it stinks, and Sam says “Here,” pleased and interested, and ducks into an alcove. He still likes finding things. He just doesn’t much care what things.

He’s sorting through bones and scraps of cloth and trinkets when Dean comes up behind him. The oldest bones are perfectly clean, a small skull with only one tooth missing. But at the back the flashlight beam catches on something slumped against the rock, like one of those dolls that are just cloth, no plastic, no bones. It’s still wearing the puffy purple jacket they'd seen in the photograph Katie’s mother showed them. The smell is unbearable. Dean pulls at Sam’s sleeve and Sam puts the skull he’s looking at down.

“C’mon, Sam. We’re too late, nothing we can do here. We’ll put in an anonymous tip on the way out of town.”

“Okay,” says Sam cheerfully, and follows Dean out. They’re heading back towards the chink of light that’s the cave mouth, and Sam is nattering on about something. Dean doesn’t even remember what, the waitress from last night, fried chicken, the grip on his handgun and how it’s a bit too slippery. And you’d think something would have to snap in Dean for it to happen, that he'd feel it, righteousness or rage or regret. But maybe the soullessness thing is catching. Because there’s not much in Dean’s head at all when he finds himself staring at Sam’s body, sprawled on the rock with a perfect, charred hole in its forehead. Sam looks surprised. Dean guesses this wasn’t part of its plans.

He salts and burns the body. There’s no one to tell. Bobby didn’t make it through the second try. Samuel got what he wanted and left months ago. Maybe Dean should call Castiel, confess to the sheriff of heaven. That would be appropriate. But Cas’s war has been going badly. He’s grim and distracted these days, never has time. Dean can manage alone.

He hunts, the car blessedly silent, and he carries on with research. If Sam’s soul is in the cage he’ll get it out, get it back into heaven where it belongs. Somehow, though, it doesn’t feel urgent. They’d never been able to confirm it was still there with Lucifer, or that Crowley had ever really had it. Maybe it’s been in heaven all along, can rest in peace there now Dean's got rid of the imposter. Cas wouldn’t necessarily know. The human bits of heaven aren’t his brief. Chances are that Sammy’s all right. Dean would like to make sure, though. Stop by heaven and check, the way he used to pass through town when Sam was at Stanford.

It’s another year and a bit before some SUV-driving asshole who’s never heard of signaling gives Dean his wish.

Heaven is full of Sams. There’s a toddler Sam playing in the snow, making snow angels, an older kid Sam whose face is lit gold and purple and green by the fireworks, and a grown-up Sam, solid and companionable and silent, who chinks his beer against Dean’s and leans back beside him on the warm hood of the Impala to look at the stars. There’s no Sam with a dog, though.

Dean looks through them all. He can’t find a Sam who remembers spring break with Jess, or acing the SATs, or being let out of the cage. Who remembers anything Dean doesn’t. Dean’s turning them over, one by one, like a deck of cards dropped on the floor, but it’s no good, they’re all just flat pictures.

So Dean makes the best of things. He spends most of his time with star-watching Sam. He’s the closest, the one that’s almost good enough. He doesn’t talk, which helps. The stars are always the same up here, no seasons, never a plane overhead or a planet brighter than usual. That’s OK. The whole place is at an impasse.

It’s not changeless, though, even if it’s meant to be eternity or whatever. At least, Dean's not changeless. He's maybe the only thing here that still shifts and crumbles away. He looks at Sam’s placid face one not-night when he takes his beer and he feels the first stir of annoyance, of revulsion. He’s let it happen again. Let something sit beside him and wear his brother’s face. It’s wrong that this not-Sam should be here, pretending, when Sam is in hell. It’s wrong that Dean should give himself this, when he’s failed. When he never got Sam out.

There’s a gun in the glove compartment. The shot sounds funny, muffled. This Sam doesn’t even look surprised.

After that . . . well, no. Not after that. Because there’s not any _afte_ _r_ here. There’s not even any _that_ anymore. But still, after that, it’s not bad. The place feels empty, drafty. Lots of unconstructed space where stuff no longer happened. Dean’s not sure what he does with his time. He tinkers at the car a bit with Ben. Other days he goes to see Mom, mows the lawn. Looks incuriously at the bulge where her belly is pushing out against her apron.

Most of the time, though, he drives. Dad just gave him the Impala and she’s running sweetly. She already knows him. There’s a warm block of sun across the passenger seat, endless road unspooling backwards in the mirror.

When he sees the hitchhiker, he almost crashes the car.


End file.
